By: Gisoo Oruzgani
As Eid drew near, many expected Kabul to come alive with packed malls and busy streets full of shoppers. But this year, it’s been different. The joy usually tied to Eid has been replaced with empty tables, anxious hearts, and a growing sense of uncertainty for countless families. Instead of Eid and festivity, Kabul’s streets reflect rising poverty, unemployment, and the tightening grip on women’s freedom.
Maihan—not his real name—a psychological counselor working at a clinic in Kabul. He told Nimrokh that many of the women he counsels are struggling with serious mental health issues. In his view, women have been stripped of their right to feel joy. “So many of them are carrying deep pain,” he said. “The restrictions placed by the Taliban, the lack of jobs, depression, even thoughts of suicide and domestic violence—it’s stripping women of their right to joy, to live a healthy, happy life.”
He warns about where this could lead. If things don’t change, he believes, these repressive policies could have a devastating impact on women and tear many families apart. “Living in this constant cycle of poverty, depression, and hopelessness might just become the new normal,” Maihan added, “and women will be even more cut off from the healthy, happy lives they deserve.”
With more and more women falling into poverty and out of work, just getting through the day has become a constant struggle. It’s not just about having a job anymore; it’s about surviving. To get a better sense of what life really looks like during Eid—from women’s presence to the spending power of everyday people—we visited the markets in Barchi and Kot-e-Sangi in Kabul.
Down one of the busy lanes in Dasht-e-Barchi, right next to the Barchi City Center, street peddling is in full swing—mainly because you can find stuff there for up to four times cheaper than in the malls. One handcart seller was selling children’s clothes for just 100 to 150 Afghanis, while similar items in formal shops were going for at least 500.
“Our stuff are cheaper,” the handcart seller told me. “So we restock every day—and by evening, they’re all gone.”
The affordability, though, comes at a cost. Most of the stuff are lower quality, mass-produced in China. One woman, clutching three sets of children’s clothes, told me, “I’m just glad I could get something for both my son and daughter. I can’t even think about shopping in the stores this year—they’re way too expensive.”
For a lot of families, even that feels out of reach. Some can’t afford a single outfit for their kids. Zahra, a mother of five, the teacher and principal of a public school in western Kabul, didn’t get to celebrate Eid with her children the way she usually does. “They haven’t paid our salaries for three months,” she said. “I’m the only one providing for my family. It’s been incredibly hard just getting through these past three months with no income. This year, I couldn’t even afford shoes for my kids.”
Zahra dreams of catching up someday—of giving her children more—but the path ahead feels uncertain. “Honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to meet their needs in the future,” she admitted quietly. “My salary doesn’t even cover the cost of bread. And we have no other source of income.” Zahra is the only breadwinner in a family of six. Four of her children go to school, while her eldest daughter stays at home.
Kot-e-Sangi is another busy, bustling corner of Kabul, known for its affordable goods. You can find just about anything there, from fabric and kitchenware to children’s clothes, all at prices that make it easier for low-income families to get by.
The area draws a steady crowd, especially women looking for affordable options. While the larger malls and stores in the city offer better quality goods, most people simply can’t afford them—so they come here, where their money stretches a bit further.
Safia, another woman shopping for her kids, had come to buy clothes and shoes. “We just can’t afford good-quality fabric,” she said. “This Eid, I only managed to buy a few meters of fabric for my daughters. I stitched their clothes myself at home.” She used to work for an NGO, but after the decree banning women from working in international organizations, she lost her job. Now, she’s a housewife.
The sudden loss of employment and years of hard-earned progress has taken more than just financial stability from women like Safia. For her and millions of Afghan women, it’s stolen the joy from celebrations, brought on waves of mental disorder, stress and anxiety, and pushed dreams further out of reach. They’ve been stripped of the right to live a peaceful, healthy, and joyful life.
